


Bitter, Like His Name

by DocGorpy



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 18:51:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18834625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DocGorpy/pseuds/DocGorpy
Summary: "You know Web, he tries to get outta everything.”





	Bitter, Like His Name

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry about this, but I wrote this back when I had just finished the series, so the hurt was still fresh. Needless to say, here's an angsty ficlet coming your way. 
> 
> Also, based on my research, the real Joseph Liebgott really did disappear for a few years after the war.

David Webster,  _what a guy._

At least, that’s exactly what Joseph Liebgott wouldn’t say if he was asked about the Harvard college boy slash mediocre paratrooper.

No, he would spew out all available profanities under the sun, not sparing any for him to even catch a breath. All before following it up with a prompt, “Fuckin’ Webster? He’s a  _putz_ if I ever did see one.”

“Didn’t you fight in the war together?” One unknowing bastard would ask, which would be received with perplexed irritation and a flurry of curses on Liebgott’s end.

“What’s it to ya?”

The inquirer would shrug apprehensively, and that would be that. If only Liebgott could forget as easily. Webster would hang on Liebgott’s tongue like a bitter smack in the mouth. It tasted very much like the steaming pig slop they were forced to eat during the war. It churned around in his stomach, providing a welcome heat to ward off the cold, but bringing with it an ache that came with eating something that looked like it should be coming out and not in. Disgusting, but it was exactly the word Liebgott would use to describe the feeling he got at any mention of the man.

At reunions, Liebgott stayed the fuck away, and Webster did the same. They remained somewhat civilized in front of the other men, or at least tried to. A bloody fistfight broke out once when Webster got a little too drunk to replace the filter on his fast-talking smartass mouth, spitting out a few insults at the expense of Liebgott’s Jewish roots. Any form of witty banter was not uncommon during these get-togethers, but all men in Easy (what was left of them, anyway) knew to never, ever provoke Liebgott with mockery that could be construed as anti-Semitic.

Webster knew that, and he knew it well. Flashes of that day in Landsberg come to mind, where Liebgott was helplessly cornered into imprisoning his own people. He cried, angrily, hopelessly, and none of the men gave him any shit for it. Webster wasn’t there to see it, but heard it from the other men. The story was so incredibly vivid, a Jewish man sent to put Jewish people back in their cages.

But the most vivid, most impossibly colorful, most real memory to Webster, was that man in the small house on the hill they had driven up on to kill.

“Is this personal to you?” Webster had asked.

A gunshot, a man with a bloodied neck running for his life, and the desperate scream of a soldier only wanting to get his futile revenge for his wronged people. It was only after the fact that Webster realized that it was personal. The stinging welt Liebgott left on his face at the otherwise happy reunion only reinforced that.

A bag of frozen peas was tossed to Webster before he was guided out of that unnamed bar they held company gatherings at, and the last image Liebgott had of Webster was that of him perched on the steps, with his back turned, his head slowly and drunkenly lolling forward, before somebody closes the door.

“He’ll be alright,” someone had said to nobody in particular, “Doc’s gonna drive him home.”

Liebgott simply nodded, concerned but irritated, clucking his tongue as he nursed an equally impressive bruise of his own, along with a cut on his brow. Blood trickled down his face and into his mouth, it was as bitter as Webster’s name.

That was the last reunion Liebgott and Webster ever attended.

The name Webster pops up on numerous occasions after that, and for years Liebgott is haunted by a man he only wishes to forget. He regrets this one day, when a call comes from Skinny.

“Web’s gone… Dead, they think.”

Liebgott had gotten old and happy and just a little bit grey, at forty six, with eight beautiful children and of course, a beautiful Jewish wife. That was all forgotten for one terrible moment when he heard the news.

Webster had been out on the ocean, studying sharks of all things, but never came back. Liebgott jokes, “You know Web, he tries to get outta everything.” A dark chuckle.

“Yeah,” Skinny laughs along, but continues on, “There’s gonna be a funeral, Lieb. If the last search party turns up with nothing… Or they find a body. His wife wants the whole company attending.”

Liebgott hangs up, he almost breaks the receiver, and his stomach churns even more. He has to hold onto something. He can’t even begin to believe it. His mind goes back to their trip to the Alps during the war, when their relationship had reached a turning point. They had become close enough to exchange stories and they did just that. Liebgott wished they had stayed that way, stayed… Friends? He didn’t really know what they were at the time. Nights sleeping next to each other, days marching side by side, afternoons hunting and scrounging together, and evenings sharing rations, coffee, cigarettes and pig slop. It was good until that day on the hill.

But that wasn’t all. Immediately after the war, years before that one fateful reunion, Joseph Liebgott had decided to disappear from the face of the Earth, from his family at least. He was gone for three years, and maybe it was premeditated, maybe it wasn’t, but one day in the middle of that big furlough, he found himself all the way across the country from his home, at Harvard, of all places. The name David Webster was met with either dismissive annoyance (expected), or great pride and admiration (ear-splitting and frankly, disturbing). There was no in between.

Finally, a useful clue, “Kenyon Webster? He’s in the English lit. building.”

It wasn’t long before Liebgott found the literature building, but his hesitation took him about half an hour before he decided to finally come in. He wandered the halls looking very much out of place, everyone wore suits or dress shirts with silk ties, and there he was in an old oversized bomber jacket and cracked leather shoes. It was a miracle that he even found Webster among the many college boy clones he had sat camouflaged in.

Webster had looked up from his reading, “Lieb?”

Liebgott didn’t answer, dread and shame had suddenly hit him across the face, what the hell was he doing? He left quickly, but to his chagrin, Webster got up to follow him outside. Liebgott didn’t stop there, he kept walking, and Webster kept following. They reached the edge of a small patch of trees and Liebgott trudged in through the brush.

Liebgott tried to joke his way out of a confrontation, “Kenyon, really?” He mocked, but failed to avert Webster’s attention.

“Why are you here?” Webster started. “What are you doing here, Lieb?”

“I don’t know, okay, Web? Fuckin’ get off my back about it.”

Webster started to protest, “You’re the one who turned up all of a fucking sudden–” but fell silent, somewhat in realization and somewhat in pity. His hand found its way to Liebgott’s shoulder, “Well, you’re a long way from home, bud.”

“Yeah, no shit, Professor.”

Webster sighed, “Look, do you need a place to stay or not?”

They spent that night on the couch in Webster’s obscenely decadent dorm room, drinking to Easy company, the end of the war, their ‘victory.’ There was no mention of dead Nazi commandants, dead concentration camp victims or even dead paratroopers.

For a moment, all was right. But like all good things, happiness is as fleeting as life. Liebgott had gone early the next morning. A warm blanket draped over Webster’s shoulders and two empty bottles of whiskey were all that were left of him. The events of the previous night were lost to Webster as well. However, a faint swelling of his lips told him that maybe a bit of catching up among friends wasn’t the only thing that transpired between them. He tucked the thought far away into the back of his mind and never brought it out until they saw each other again.

The first time they met again at a reunion, they didn’t even look at each other. The second time, a year later, they returned to the usual squabbling and leg-pulling. But, like a charm, by the third time, they were drawing blood.

Liebgott doesn’t really know why he decided to get that violent with Webster. Granted, his comments had warranted a little more than a light slap on the wrist, but maybe not a mouthful of blood.

Just like Liebgott, Webster didn’t like the way he had spoken to Joe. Drunk as he was, he didn’t mean any of it. Maybe Lieb’s leaving him so abruptly with so many unanswered questions had hurt him a little more than he would have cared to admit.

Joe on the other hand, concluded that maybe he just wanted to put a sense of finality on his decision to forget David Webster and the night they spent together.

Of course, fate will still be everlastingly cruel, even in the granting of wishes. Now Joe would have no choice but to forget, even if the hunger to forget was not with him anymore. David Webster would be lost to him forever.


End file.
